Even Now, A Bright Shadow
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: It was a wee little light – just a tiny nub of radiance against the dark and gloomy stairwell.


**Warnings:** Character Study, Introspection  
 **A/N:** Written for **who_contest** 's **Prompt:** **Candle**. For once, the fiction penned out close to what I had planned. The idea came to me within days of the challenge announcement, but as a few of you know, me and the Musie have been having more than a few scuffles of late. It was only my throwing in the towel on who owns this brain that finally brought this about. I certainly hope it reads well and that is is (at the very least), semi-enjoyable. As for coherent, much less intelligeable, I'm even less sure of that - as I was up into the morning sussing out, then pecking out, the words as they came. Apologies in advance. As per usual, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as always), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/wandery/blithery and unbeta'd.  
 **Disclaimer(s):** _I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_

* * *

It was a wee little light – just a tiny nub of radiance against the dark and gloomy stairwell. It danced and swayed like a will-o-the-wisp, darting here along the railing, just behind it, then a little above it; the occasional thumps, thuds and squeaks at the bottom of that very staircase causing that teeny brightness to pause, shiver, then sway back as if frightened. It was just a tiny little light, not very radiant – but very illuminating in all that it _didn't_ shine upon – even as it beat back the dark around that long, very old and highly oiled railing.

The wee little light traveled (shivering, shuddering, but boldly hanging on), down the staircase, shimmering between the railings and bobbing happily to itself as reflections of its stubborn (yet brave) fire soldiered down, down the steps into the room below. Occasionally it would flicker and a wee little hand would cup it, keep it safe – remind it to be brave as the thumps, squeaks and the occasional voice fluttered up to meet them – the wee little hand and the wee little light on an adventure through the darkness to greet the unknown below.

"I know you're here," the voice said, grumpy, scruffy and maybe a touch sad – not that the wee little light could discern this. The wee little hand that occasionally protected it from the drafts in the big, gloomy darkness of the house could hear it though; the wee little feet pausing three steps from the bottom, the light raised to pierce (tiny, almost imperceptibly) into the vast shadows below.

The wee little light shivered again. As did the wee little hand that grasped the stick that held, fed and housed it. But whether that was from the draft of the house or the draft of the voice, the teeny, tiny light did not know.

And neither did its teeny, tiny protector.

"Come on, come on…can't hide from me now can you?" The sad-gruff-scruffy voice whispered. At least, it must have been an attempt at whispering, though the voice didn't seem very good at it. "Must be here _somewhere_."

"Excuse me," said the wee little human with her teeny-tiny candle. "Are you Father Christmas?"

The owner of the scruffy-gruff-sad voice turned so quickly the wee little light and the teeny-tiny girl holding it shivered back a step, trembling – but not scared, not really – for the owner of that voice (the voice that tried to be tiny like them, even as it was as big as a lion underneath), looked like magick. Or what magick would look like if it was walking, talking and thinking under the mantle of a damp, old, tired manse.

"Father Christmas?" The gruff-scruffy voice from the magick man sounding surprised and more than a little offended. "Do I look like a fat man who needs a shave? Do these eyebrows look like they belong with a flowing white beard?"

The wee little flame was held higher by the teeny-tiny hand, its brave countenance shining strong but small against the owner of the scruffy-gruff-sad voice; the face matched its tones, even as its eyes were kind and older than the manse by…ages – neither the wee light, nor the tiny girl could fathom the years – but then, that wasn't really important, was it? It was just something that _was_ , which was good enough for the wee little light and its wee little companion.

"No," the teeny tiny girl said, wee eyes scrunched in critical concentration. "I suppose not –"

"Ha- _HA_ ," the magick man boomed quietly, eyes scrunched equally hard, but no longer at the wee little girl and her wee little light. "Looks can be deceiving – but not generally, no. Take – for instance – the fact that in this time, in this place there is something that is very dangerous that looks not dangerous at all. I plan to find it and remove it before it does any damage, but it is like looking for a galaxy in a cluster of galaxies…"

The last was a mutter (quite a feat for the Voice) and the words made no sense, but this didn't bother the wee little light nor its teeny tiny companion one little bit. Adults often said things that made no sense, so it stood to reason that even magick men who look like adults should also spout nonsense. Though magick men seemed to spout more nonsense than the average.

"Can I help?" The wee little girl inquired, remembering in the last minute to be on her best manners. Manners were a bother, but nanny insisted on them. Often. And loudly. One never knew when nanny would turn up, either – so better safe than sorry.

" _Help_?" The magick man inquired, that surprise creeping back into his voice as he peered at her through the scary, gruff, kindly eyebrows. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"You were noisy," the wee little girl said truthfully, only last minute realizing that the statement (blunt as it was) could be considered rude. "I mean, I might know what it looks like."

The eyebrows climbed and climbed into the gruff, scruffy hairline, the smile below them just as surprised as they were – even as the voice was firm and sadder still.

"No," the magick man said thoughtfully. "No, I don't think you…Father Christmas could be along at any moment and what would he think if you were up and about at this hour?"

"I don't know," the wee little girl said. "When he comes, I should ask him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind me helping, though. In looking for your lost magick."

"My lost…" The gruff-scruffy voice faded, as did the big, scruffy smile. The next smile was warmer, but smaller – made just for wee little girls with their wee little candle-lights against the wee, dark hours of a Christmas morning. "I'm quite sure he wouldn't."

So the gruff-scruffy-sad magick man told her what his magick looked like – and what it didn't. He described something that Papa had brought home only hours before, though he didn't look as though he was quite aware of carrying it. She had thought it was a Christmas present for Mummy, even as it made her feel shivery and much smaller than she actually was. She knew exactly where Papa had put it – in the study on the far side of the house – the study that no one could enter without Papa's express permission.

She hoped Father Christmas would understand. Mummy's present wasn't a good present – and honestly, Mummy would be happier without it. Papa would (hopefully) not really remember it was even there. These were tiny hopes from a teeny girl braving the dark with a wee little light. She puffed up her little chest, grasped the hand of the magick man and walked him into Papa's study – past the living room, past the kitchens, past the drawing room – their feet quiet, their shadows long in the wee little light.

The magick man quickly found the present, the sickly glow it gave off darker than the shadows around them. The wee little light could not penetrate it; the wee little girl knew in her tiny-big heart that even the sun could not dispel the terrible light it gave off – and she was grateful the magick man came to take it away. It did not belong in their big, old house. This house with creaky floorboards and shiny banisters that were tempting to wee little girls who liked the idea of sliding down them. It didn't belong with nanny's exasperated and fond reprimands, nor Mummy's warm hugs or Papa's booming laughter. The magick man could make it disappear and she had a wee little feeling that he could weaken that terrible light and make it not so terrible anymore.

She hoped Father Christmas would be proud, even if she was up very, very late for wee little girls. But she didn't know exactly how to say this. So she just smiled her wee warm smile at the magick man and calmly, bravely led him back to the living room, the wee little light dancing and strong at the end of its tapered stick.

"You saved the world," the magick man said, almost as if he was talking to himself. "I hope you know that, even as the years go by and you forget what exactly happened – know that you did good. And on Christmas! The very day where being good, doing great things, creates its own magick – magick that lasts all throughout the year."

He folded the handkerchief that held the terrible light into his strange pocket, his gruff-scruffy-sad voice a little lighter, a little less sad, though no less scruffy-gruff – his smile warm enough to light the world, big as it was to a wee little girl. He smiled that smile down on her, leading her firmly, subtly to the staircase, a nod the only answer to her questioning gaze.

"Just remember to recreate that magick every year, Clara. If anyone can, you can. Never forget that. Now off to bed with you," mockingly stern, the scruffy-gruff eyebrows sad again, even as the mouth was smiling warmth and happiness. "Father Christmas is sure to bring all sorts of baubles, knick-knacks and paddy-whacks to clutter up your playroom and give your nanny the fits. That's why he gives them out, I think. Just to have nannies everywhere tearing their hair out. Still can't figure out the tangerines, though. Does anyone even _eat_ those?"

Wee little Clara Oswin with her wee little light scurried up the staircase, brave teeny flame wavering wild and full along the railings until she got to her wee little bed behind her wee little door. She would try to stay awake, just to get a glimpse of Father Christmas, but her wee tiny eyes would close minutes before he arrived (tangerines, knick-knacks and baubles galore) – the wee little light shining stubborn and brave on its tapered wick; guarding a wee little girl in her wee little bed, the bright shadows of the dawn far away and ever so near. It was Christmas morning in the Oswin house –

And the magick was just beginning.


End file.
